


Interpolation

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Cuckolding, F/F, Mocking, Season/Series 04, Smut, Spanking, Taunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Interpolation, stems from interpolate (v.), meaning “to alter or corrupt by inserting new or foreign matter."Alternatively summarized as "Prisoner Ferguson fucks Governor Bennett and later taunts Officer Stewart about it."
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	1. Covalence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsYukari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsYukari/gifts).



> So, this fic was inspired by an edit that @rabeisqueen on Twitter devised. Here’s the original source link though I’m not sure if it’s valid anymore: https://twitter.com/rabeisqueen/status/1145775986555990017?s=21.
> 
> The premise of this fic is simply this: Prisoner Ferguson fucks Governor Bennett and then taunts Jake about it. It’s been sitting in my drafts for months on Word so I wanted to crank the first part out.
> 
> I dedicate this piece to my good pal, MsYukari, who wanted some freakytits spankings.

In setting up the dramatis personae, a deified villain poses atop the altar like it’s an appropriated throne. Somehow, Joan Ferguson manages to make even a hospital bed look good. The interpolator and the interrogator all in one extends her scalded, burned hand under the glaring fluorescent lights. One by one, she flicks and flexes her slender fingers, the skin pink and new, rid of the snake’s dry, brittle scales.

With no escaping the Devil’s clutch, Governor Vera Bennett storms into the medical ward wearing the suit she’s coveted for years, the persona she’s modeled after her tragic hero, her idol whose marble edifice is still hard, still cold, but now impersonal – hailed as some art work to be criticized rather than worshipped.

Summoned to these quarters, Governor and Deputy (Deputy and Governor with their fluctuating roles) strike an unspoken deal. There is no denying this proposition, regardless of who benefits. What twisted values they share.

Talk about another fucking halcyon day.

Inmate Ferguson expands her body the way in which a shadow occupies a room. Broad shoulders heave in the motion of a loose shrug that mocks apathy. The teal swallows her form to make her larger than life and always, her presence overshadows – taunts and haunts – poor Vera trying to be something new when she’s really something old.

Always, Vera finds herself looking up to others, no matter where she stands or what side she plays with her petty triumvirate, flanked by Officers Will Jackson and Jake Stewart. Even now, she tilts her chin upright, trying to make herself taller despite feeling so small, so insignificant, so unworthy. Dalliances with Mr. Stewart won’t cut it. Nothing fills the void unlike a wound that’s as rotten as Ferguson.

For every insipid little thing Vera has orchestrated both within and outside this prison, adherence to protocol yields in a thin veil, a false veneer that drives her to goad Joan ever further. Vera has grown along with Wentworth, or so she believes. She’s worked _hard_ for the Governorship; she’ll be remised to relinquish the title so quickly having already been overlooked for the role years ago. 

Is this simply a familiar test of wiles, an Old Western stare down? 

“I see you’ve come to exercise your haphazard sense of leadership,” Joan drawls sardonically.

Faustian temptation presents itself. On the edge of the cot with her back to the wall, Joan juts her jaw forward. Plays coy by swiveling her finger ‘round her thick ponytail. Bristling, Vera wonders what happened to the formidable woman she used to serve – the shadow she used to keep up with, the footsteps she fell short of. From the mere memory, her legs tremble. Her calves quiver. Her stomach lurches.

“Enough,” Vera snaps in retaliation, the vein in her neck throbbing as an open invitation for a wicked bite or the volatile prick of a needle.

Naïve, vindictive Vinegar Tits thinks she can tempt the Devil. Perhaps Miss Bennett is a fool for taking the bait. For fueling her twisted, bleeding heart that makes her act rather than think. Small, formerly demure hands form loose fists that rattle. Oh, how she hoped to do more good than harm, but here she is, plummeting toward her own dark desires.

Antiquated nervous habits compel her to wet her chapped, swollen lips tenfold. Bent at the waist, leaning forward to invade personal space, Vera drags her index finger under the curve of Joan’s pale, defined jaw, pressing into the soft palette before moving to stroke the hard edge of bone. She could be harsh in her own right. Long before Joan, she was poisoned.

“I have you right where you belong,” she informs Prisoner Ferguson, her voice soft and delicate despite cruel intentions.

Is Vera incapable of transparency or is her dark tormentor responsible for this defilement? 

Pride and arrogance remain a palpable mask for Ferguson. She quirks her brow, purses her lips, her cheek twitching in a failure to accompany either a smile or a disdainful sneer.

“Hmm,” Joan hums, preaching stoicism with her masked ruse. “Such vested interests, _Governor_.”

In a state of ennui, Joan taunts and scoffs, her jest as sharp as a switchblade digging in. Maintaining her poker face, her palms coast along the tops of her thighs. Ferguson entertains her desires as much as she humiliates her title, the standing she has so desperately worked to achieve. Perhaps Joan wants to see just how far Vera is willing to go, to either conform or deviate from the mold, to witness Vera take control.

But it doesn’t come. It never does.

“Punish me,” Vera commands, pretending to be iron, to be stiff, when she’s weak-willed and malleable. “Prove to me that the crowns belong to you.”

Always has been, always will be.

Vera continues to grip Joan’s jaw, pinches her mandible before relinquishing her haughty, holier-than-thou personage.

“How predictable.” Joan almost sounds disappointed.

Such a dreadful shame that Vera hasn’t quite succumb to ultra-violence or her uncontrollable urge for pyrrhic victories. Still mirthful, Joan discards the teal sweatshirt to reveal the purest white underneath.

At this point, there is no fighting the adage branded as sordid desire. Vera wriggles out of ironed trousers. Lately, coquettish Miss Bennett has taken to wearing black lace. The soaked material clings to the blazing heat between her legs. The (False _!_ ) Governor drops the militant edge. At last, she concedes.

“You want me, because I embody what you want to be,” the vile serpent in the room jests. 

Her barbs arouse as much as they frustrate.

Prettier than infernal Hades, Ferguson rotates her finger to mimic a halo long since forgotten in favor of her fall from grace. Heat rises from Vera’s cheeks and akin to a trained dog, she pivots. She turns away. She stares at the frosted glass integrated into the metal door.

“Ah, ah,” the Fixer tuts and seeks to correct; it’s her prison, she knows what’s best. “Face down on my lap. Do so quickly.”

Damn Vera for listening to the personification of authority, for stretching herself across Joan’s lap, as if it were some medieval torture device. She buries her face, hides her shame, and fists the sterile hospital sheets.

Having administered a preemptive strike, Joan slaps her ass, smacks her upper thighs, moves along the curve of her buttocks to leave no part unmarked. Her knickers add to the constriction of fabric accompanying the liquid surge that yields in a plethora of sensations.

“You can do more damage,” Vera goads and almost delivers the satisfaction of a yelp after Ferguson concedes.

Persistent, grating friction takes her that much higher. Squirming, she attempts to silence her whimpers or subdue them at the very least. She clenches her jaw, tense after all this time. Chews on the sheet as a gag forced between her teeth. She claws at whatever she can reach. 

Destroying others to destroy herself, Joan hammers down onto that pert, shapely bum. She manipulates the damp fabric into a makeshift thong to gain easier access to that tight, shapely ass. Ever the executioner, she delivers her volatile punishment. She squeezes the flesh that turns as scarlet as the hand that endured Proctor’s slingshot, renegade ways.

Satisfied by the red marks she’s inflicted; Joan puts Vera in her place and perhaps this is what Vera has wanted – _needed_ – all along. It’s so bloody easy to tame a shrew. Ferguson knows just how to give her a good railing.

“Oh fuck” hails a litany of lost causes.

In gratitude, her cheek nuzzles a clothed thigh until Vera spirals down from her high and switches back into the role of acting Governor.

“I need you to fuck me,” Vera rasps, panting from the tortured writhing she commits herself to.

Joan could easily make a feast of her and God, she would let her. She has her usurper right where she wants her.

Desire surges through her veins scorched from after the treacherous fall. Vera curses in the name of a forgotten God. Slick between the legs, a derisive palm strikes her ass until she’s sore and red, begging (squealing for release). Fuck, she needs to find her ruinous end. Hands gripping and parting herself from behind, Governor Bennett exposes herself.

Like the crack of a whip in hurricane motion, Joan slithers out from beneath her and lowers onto her creaking knees. With ease, she maneuvers Vera’s body so that the Governor remains face down on the cot, arse up to be defiled.

Lying on her stomach, she never thought it would come to this. From behind, the impervious Joan Ferguson eats her out. The velvety softness of a warm, wet tongue fills her. Oozing frail, warbled noises dressed up as desperate need, Vera lurches her hips against that serpentine tongue coasting along her drenched slit. At how easily she sinks inside of her adversary, Joan groans. Devouring and conquering, laying claim to the woman beneath her, Joan perfects the art of tongue-fucking.

Nudged over the brink, Vera succumbs to her little taste of death, swayed by the lustful pound of flesh. So, saturated in sweat, she lets herself get defiled to approach the brink of her demise.

What should be humiliating feels titillating. In all her writhing, her forehead presses against the surface of the cot. Over time, Vera reminds herself to return to the surface – to lift her head to breathe. With a dexterous swipe of her finger, wrist extended to offer a taste of herself, Vera brings Joan’s finger to her lips. Taking it to the knuckle, Vera hollows her cheeks while running her tongue across soaked skin, completely and utterly ruined by the patron saint of her demise. Quietly, she licks Joan’s fingers clean to erase every last trace of her. Pupils dilated by that rather wanton display, ocean eyes maintain contact with the Devil’s burning stare.

In desire of her equal share, she springs free from her fixed position to lure Joan back into a seated position. Their dynamic shifts and changes; nothing new, nothing old. Vera kneels before the crown.

Enshrined between her legs, Vera never thought their caustic friction would amount to this; from savior to villain to the things left unsaid, this is supposed to be her deified antagonist, her scapegoat fix.

“Don’t deny yourself, Vera. You want to taste me.”

In a rough tug, she lowers the sweats and the standardized cotton briefs. Vera finds herself right where she belongs. Savoring the beguiling trace of her vanilla perfume, she tastes just as sweet. Her tongue flits past the dense mass of curls to the source of swollen, wet heat before denying the privilege of consumption.

Shallowly, her fingers dip and tease until Joan growls for Vera to “go harder.” She rides her palm for all its worth, the heel striking against her swollen, aching clit.

Despite the ache riddling her farm, dutiful Vera persists. Building momentum, the surge of her forearm pulls at her tendons. As she drills forward, her muscles scream for mercy. That violent pistoning overlooks the burn. From the tenacity of her thrusts, her palm meets her soaked cunt. Their fervor hails the organic movement of frenzied animals.

“Always eager to please, aren’t you? Still my Deputy,” Joan goads in between grunts and a moan that dies within her throat.

It’s more than a fuck that keeps Vera in line.

The still silence of night beckons the paranoid sounds of groaning, humming machinery, bars rattling, muttered whispers, subdued moans, and the cry of walls refusing to be tamed. The cheap, dirty act of defenestration only compliments prison’s vehement orchestrations.

In a tale of mutual dependence, their litany of cries become inseparable, interwoven and coiled to replicate a harsh, jarring sound. Repelled yet attracted, they come together only to fall apart. 

Ashamed, she walks away, still aching and desperately wet yet again. The musk of sex (a fervent fuck) permeates the medical unit. Taints and infiltrates in only a way Ferguson excels at. With the wool no longer pulled over her eyes, Vera stands alone in the hallway, sparing one last glance over her shoulder.


	2. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan goads Jake, so the story goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … And here’s the follow-up. Joan and Jake talk, she humiliates him, but he always comes crawling back. They all do.

Stolen during the night before the artificial Governor slunk away, Joan still feels Vera’s persistent pining channeled through a tortured, albeit hungry kiss that transpired after their wanton dalliance. With their lips pressed together in a fervent intensity, Ferguson tastes the traces of a mind divided. Through demeanor and professional choices (albeit poorly made), Miss Bennett attempts to emulate her legacy that thrusts her morals down a dismal hole.

Without pretense, after the scorching kiss, Joan lets her go. Lets her run, as if she remains the rabbit-hearted woman that Governor Ferguson first encountered in Wentworth. They both contain multitudes and have changed so much yet so little – that’s the real conundrum of prison; no matter the uniform, it’s still just a uniform.

Vera scampers away, her stride short and frantic, as if she’s drowning or abandoning a sinking ship. _Perhaps a combination of the two,_ Joan muses while night pays adieu and succumbs to the early dawn.

Lured into her lair, Officer Jake Stewart makes his presence known. He doesn’t make an oafish ruckus like Mr. Fletcher, but he uses noise to his benefit. The violent sympathy grates on her sense of sound. Her ears could bleed from the offensive tread of his steps, the dangling chain secured to his utility belt, and the way his identification badge carries presence.

As per usual, Mr. Stewart holds watch. This time around, he doesn’t look Medusa in the eye. He dwells on his exit strategies and the sheer burden of debt that attacks his living shadow. He even looks over his shoulder, mind occupied by Turk and his crew. Surprise, surprise.

And the Devil’s always in the details, Joan observes the micro-movement, subtle as an afterthought, with a wicked, lascivious grin.

This triadic affair of dangerous liaisons escalates. Prison cares simply for the trifles of another scandal rather than the severe, damaging impact of livelihood, of a person’s wellbeing. In a hell of a tango, Vera will find herself perpetually caught in the middle.

Coquettishly with her legs crossed while perched atop the cot rather than the neighboring chair, Joan twirls her ponytail. Her shoulders sit a little higher to depict pride’s pretty portrait. 

Out of desperation and fueled by deceit, he plays his hand larger than life. He stretches the truth with a smarmy grin before leaning forward to boast in a case of infringement. Although he’s full of shit, she’ll give him credit for never breaking character.

“You don’t get it, do you? I win, Joanie. I’m proposing to Vera,” Jake brags, his teeth too white from some artificial means.

Maybe even veneers. Joan wouldn’t put it past him.

Dirty deeds executed at an excessive, obscene cost don’t settle well with him, but he does them. She likes that potential in him, the need to go a little further to execute whatever sick plan he has in mind. He’s interesting, nowhere near as predictable as the fallen hero, Will Jackson, or the mundane women. Although Mr. Stewart struggles to understand himself, he wants to, and that makes all the difference.

In serpentine movement, Joan pushes her shoulderblades back. Her spine creaks from the miserable interlude, though it’s all for dramatic effect. Joan flaunts her petty victories while wagging her poisonous tongue.

“Then, why is it that she comes crawling back to me, mm?”

Flabbergasted, Jake loses his calm, collected demeanor. He blinks. Fairytale Prince lashes curl and therein, Joan acknowledges where Vera sees the allure. It’s laughable and pathetic for Vera to chase romanticism that she doesn't even crave.

“All you do is blow hot air, all smoke and flames to the point of burning,” he counters, feeling unbelievably **sore**.

In a wicked spark of amusement, Joan takes a nonchalant sip from her neighboring disposable cup that once stood on the table. Ever so smug, she purses her lips before popping them for added theatrics. 

“Ah, ah. You’ve never owned her despite your claims, _Jakey_. Vera and this prison belong to me,” she adds.

Appearing terribly pleased with herself, Vasilisa the Wise gives counsel. She uses her cunning like always.

“Don’t be factitious, Ferguson,” Stewart chastises. “It’s not very becoming.”

Jason with his golden fleece feels the stale pangs of betrayal. It hurts and he’s frustrated by his inability to articulate the hows or whys behind the cause.

“Is that a note of jealousy I detect? No need to whine, Mr. StewarT,” she interjects before flicking her wrist back to raise a hand in retaliation. “Your inability to please Vera coupled with my history with her is a testament to the stalwart bond we share. Only I know how to make her scream for her maker.”

For Jake, it’s something else, always something else.

Flexing her healing hand, she averts her gaze from Jake to her crooked fingers. As an inmate, she carries herself with a fiendish impishness. She licks her chops for dramatic effect, the wolf knocking at sad, little Mr. Stewart’s door. In her rightful kingdom, Joan exerts a penchant for cuckoldom.

Caught in a proverbial maze, Jake looks dazed. His jaw just about hangs, but he manages to wire his mouth shut. The muscles in his cheeks strain. He flounders.

“I daresay you could learn some lessons from the master,” she quips coquettishly while examining her scarred skin.

Due to his bragging blunder, Jake loses hold on his window of opportunity. He reacts as a sullen child would. What a fool he is to underestimate the audacity of a strict, militant teacher. A handsome, Hollywood reject heartthrob suffers from the scorpion sting of regret.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Teach me,” he retaliates with a quiet ferocity by settling a hand upon her broad, now stiffened shoulder.

Oh, if looks could kill.

Denial transforms itself into a physicality. Ferguson seizes a titanic hold on Officer Stewart’s hairy, thick wrist. Her thumb presses into the blue network of veins, sinking into the protrusion of muscle beneath skin to feel the divide between his bones. He winces and the sadist within savors the reaction.

“No,” Joan retorts.

There’s neither reason nor rhyme for compromise. She exists within her jurisdiction of refusing him an in-depth response.

In a seething fury, Jake yanks himself away, his heart throbbing against his ribcage in a demand to seek freedom. He wants to grab her by the hair even though he knows he shouldn’t. Backed into a corner, having been had, he clicks his tongue and juts his jaw with one thumb hooked into his utility belt. He’s fucked and he knows it. He’ll take this to Channing despite the fact that Joan has adequate leverage to play them both.

Reigning as a tyrannical Queen, she has them all under _her_ thumb. Joan has heralded Vera’s transformation and now plants such insidious thoughts in Jake’s head. She makes her little puppets dance for the awe-inspiring show. Having developed a binding social contract, Joan Ferguson remains the maestro of another poor soul’s fate.

In reverse, he carries himself. He walks backwards, facing Hell all the while. With his good hand, he wags a finger, akin to a comedic act. 

“You’re off your bloody rocker,” he rasps through the pain, cradling his wrist. Sprained or not, he can’t decide.

Before he storms away, he lingers in the threshold. He furrows his thick brows.

“Oh, Mr. Stewart, you tangle yourself up in your own marionette strings,” she delivers one final, crushing blow and her smoky voice trails behind his heated steps. “You make for a lousy peddler and an even poorer liar. I suppose Vera will be spending more nights in my bed from here on out.”

Mocked and belittled, his teeth threaten to break from the pressure behind closed lips. The message reads loud and clear. So, he gets it and retreats to lick his wounds, his pride that spills into a micro-brewery lie. For all his insolence, Officer Stewart slithers away, his shoulders sloped downward.

To herself, she chuckles softly, but it’s a hollow victory for Joan though her Underworld remains secure.

There’s no comfort in madness when no one save herself can claim their own.


End file.
